Sir Tristram, standing once more beside Sylvester’s bed, was a little shocked to perceive already a change in him. Sylvester was still propped up by a number of pillows, and he still wore his wig, but he seemed suddenly to have grown frailer and more withdrawn. Only his eyes were very much alive, startlingly dark in his waxen face.
Sir Tristram said in his deep voice: “I’m sorry, sir: I believe my visit has too much exhausted you.”
“Thank you, I am the best judge of what exhausts me,” replied Sylvester. “I shan’t last much longer, I admit, but by God, I’ll last long enough to settle my affairs! Are you going to marry that chit?”
“Yes, I’ll marry her,” said Shield. “Will that content you?”
“I’ve a fancy to see the knot well tied,” said Sylvester. “Fortunately, she’s not a Papist. What do you make of her?”
Sir Tristram hesitated. “I hardly know. She’s very young.”
“All the better, as long as her husband has the moulding of her.”
“You may be right, but I wish you had broached this matter earlier.”
“I’m always right. What did you want to do? Come a-courting her?” jibed Sylvester. “Poor girl!”
“You are forcing her to a marriage she may easily regret. She is romantic.”